Mark said: "There's a release valve this side. I'll ease it off if you strike trouble."

"Here goes!" April pushed home the container. In her eagerness to ram it hard enough to perforate the sealing and so lock the container to the filler valve, she tilted it slightly off-center. A stream of fluid hissed over her hands and the porcelain-topped bench. Mark spun the release valve, but the injector had ceased.

"Timed flow," he said, screwing up the valve. "Try again."

April took another cylinder. This time she made no error. The hissing of the injector stopped. The container jerked back in her hands. She shook it gently, inspected it. "One more for luck." She filled another, collected a handful of taps, put these and the containers in the bag, zipped it up, then turned to see Mark staring at the bench.

"My God! This stuff's a killer—look at my case! Or what was my case." The pigskin had dissolved into a gooey mess, shriveled away from the metal frame.

"Neat K.S.R.6," said April, spreading her gloved hands. "It sprayed all over these; but they're okay."

"Car-iss-ima! What will it do to the human skin?"

"It isn't intended for use on skin, but people in constant contact with it must wear this type of clothing."

Mark nodded. "It jells, darling—it jells. Clever girl! Those chicks in Carnaby Street gave you the lead?"

April smiled. "I'd like to go down to posterity as a genius, but no—not as simple as that. I thought the dresses intriguing. I couldn't see why they were being modeled so publicly, because they weren't on sale. Then I saw Dr. Karadin and a silly little bell started ringing in my wee head. Years ago he had this thing about the Parsimal Theory—I won't go into that now—but he also had a very, very big thing about a world currency. He belonged to a wealthy family, but some collapse of the currency in which their wealth was invested wiped out his inheritance."

"So he became a fanatic on the subject? That's understandable. It ain't funny to see all your buy go down the spout."

"That's true. But he made a lot of trouble for himself. Professors in politics, or those who interfere in political issues, are not very popular. Yet he was a brilliant scientist. I think he still is." She stared at Mark. "What is worse than a brilliant scientist who becomes a nutcase?"

"Two ditto scientists."

"One is enough to devise a bomb."

"And if that one defects with his nasty little secret..."

"… and finds someone who not only believes in him and his work but guarantees him a fortune and—say—a world currency?..."

Mark grinned. "I'd better empty my teapot!"

"Teapot?"

"Weak joke. An old British custom. They can't abide to throw away old teapots. They keep 'em and stuff 'em with money for their holidays or a rainy day. Yes—I don't need a diagram to see the connection." He paused, gazing at April as he said slowly: "That's what happened to my cash paper money—and yours! Holy Hannibal—wotta jolly old carve-up!"

"But not Dr. Karadin's cash in its" — she flicked the gown—"in its cozy metal protection."

"Nor Suzanne's with her little purse ditto."

April grinned. "So you put the bite on her for lunch?" Then seriously tapping the vat: "This is neat K.S.R.6 in here. It stands weakening to around a thousand to one."

"A thousand to one what?"

"Rain water, or specially softened water. It is designed to be spun out under pressure and is so constituted that it remains in miniscule globules."

"You should put that to music. So we are surrounded by miniscule globules. Why then does not our skin peel off?"

"In that diffused solution it doesn't affect the skin. As the moisture dries out, a vapor is released from each globule. This vapor has an affinity of reconstitution with banknote paper and the ink used to print it. The dosage can be varied for each country, according to types of paper and ink. The vapor penetrates clothing, purses, wallets, through cracks in doors or safes, is carried into banks, shops—anywhere. All paper money will absorb it—some parchments or heavy quality paper also can be affected. Once the vapor reaches your money it at once reconstitutes itself and, in the process, turns your lovely crisp notes into an ugly, indistinguishable mess."

"So all we have to do is carry ruddy great bags of silver—at least those who have enough notes left to change into silver?"

"Don't be a fool, Mark."

"Sorry, mate. You've certainly done your homework. So this is Karadin's base and jollop factory?"

"The British one. Important, I think, because the British print currency for a number of countries. And possibly the first, being easiest for Karadin to prove his case to his backers. But make no mistake, Mark—this is global, and their plans must be pretty far advanced."

"Ye gods! The Global Globules! Darling—they won't believe us! And if they do..." He paused and whistled softly.

"Yes," she said. "It doesn't call for much imagination to picture the panic by ordinary people whose wages and housekeeping money is suddenly worthless—the run on all banks and currency issuing centers. Even their vaults aren't safe. Chaos—economic chaos. Would the way be open for a world currency? But that is only a starter."

"Is there an antidote—or whatever the stuff might be called?"

"I wouldn't know." She touched his silvery metal sleeve. "Only this stuff is protection..."

Mark whirled, running to the window as they heard thunder flashes exploding. "The guards are back! More of them than I thought—and three are not wearing metal clothes."

"We'll have to bluff them," said April. "With the face masks pulled up..."

"...And these comical hats. Hold on to that bag, me old darling—I'll cover your getaway." He fumbled under the gown for his pocket. "The car keys."

"Both of us

"No—dammit it, woman, stop being so bloody equal!" He grinned. "And anyway, that bag is bigger than both of us!"

April said: "The metal men are going around that end—we'll go out the front hall. The other three are heading thataway."

They left the room, masks pulled up.

Mark said, close to her ear: "Car radio—red switch on left—push down for open circuit Channel D link with all-Europe H.Q."

She nodded, briefly. Her eyes smiled at him. Then they were in the hall.

The three men had just entered.

"... Where's that old fool Sam?" a dark, thick-set man was saying. "Ah! Ingrid! What's going on here? I couldn't raise the house on the car phone. And what the hell are the guards doing, parading over the moors in their K suits? We've finished tests." He halted, peering hard, obviously noting the difference in coloring of eyes and hair. "You're not Ingrid—"

April Dancer took one pace forward, then a swift side step as the man's hand flashed to a shoulder gun. Her free hand flicked across his eyes, the point of her shoe swinging against the most vulnerable point of his knee. His body came forward and down as his leg gave way, leaving his neck a perfect target. April didn't waste the target. Her hand chopped down. His body pitched forward and lay still.

The other two men had stood back, undecided, and not quick enough to move as fast as their companion. Mark Slate took one of them, crashed him to the floor and got a wrist hold on the second man's gun-arm before the gun was leveled. The gun fired upwards. Mark broke the man's arm, then in a flurry of blows collapsed him.